


Worn to Paper

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Assassin Stiles Stilinski, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Stiles, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Gerard is a creep, Hale pack fire, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Magic, Magical Lydia, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Memory Loss, Prince Derek, Stiles uses a different name, Stiles-centric, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, more tags added later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2018-11-29 13:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11442285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: Stiles is selected by the elders of his village to complete his first assignment as a Journeyman. He's given a knife, directions to the castle, and told his target is a woman. They might have neglected to tell him it's the Queen Alpha.When he can't complete the mission and he returns to the village, they immediately punish him for his failure by removing him from everyone's memory and consciousness. He is invisible, nameless. Stiles is no more. Now there is only Fox.And Fox seems to be the target of a very angry ex-prince Derek.





	1. The Ins and Outs of Assassinating a Royal

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be short. It is not.   
> This hasn't been edited. 
> 
> Warnings at the end.

 

                                                                 

 

 

 

 

He does not move.

  
Even as the sun dips below the mountain ridge, with its last flair of light setting the peaks ablaze with the amber-gold that gave Beacon Hills its name. Even as the evening bell sounds from the upper levels of town, finally bringing an end to the constant murmur of the open marketplace. And, yes, even when a snarl of hunger protests his refusal to follow the townsmen to the taverns for supper.

Even then, he does not move.

He waits, and the sky sinks into dusty blues, the first freckles of starlight shining brighter and more friendly than any tavern window. It’s only when the lamp-lighters make their rounds, sluggish from the heat of the day and full bellies, does he dare move an inch. Just enough to chance a look through the window he so precariously perched under all those hours ago. Unfortunately, the room remains dark, so he returns to his uncomfortable position with a silent grumble. He’d managed to wedge himself between the stone windowsill that, while lovingly carved with flowers, is also terribly  _pointy_ , and a small, slanted ledge designed for sending rain away from the lower windows. Not many could have managed the squeeze, but a good twenty minutes of silent prayers and sheer determination were all he needed before he settled in for the inevitable torture of waiting.

It’s long after the last of the rowdy drunks have passed out in whatever shed or barn they stumbled into, when light finally fills the room above him. By then, his fingers have grown cold and stiff from their grip on the stone, and the bruises he obtained from his earlier climb have started to throb. His entire body protests the sudden tension that claws through his muscles at the first signs of life within the room. There’s no time to stretch his trembling muscles—no room, either—he has a job to do, and his target has finally arrived.

“I will hear nothing more of this,” a woman speaks, followed by the sharp thunk of a drawer closing.

“You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said all evening!”

Frowning, he shifts himself closer to the window, wishing for a less obvious way to see into the room. There was only supposed to be one person in the room, one target. That was all he was told when they sent him on his way.

Someone laughs, but it’s not a cheerful sound. “If you were speaking sense, then perhaps I would listen.”

“Oh? Then explain why that druid had your ear all throughout dinner.”

“I do not have to explain myself to you, Peter,” she sighs, sounding weary. “Can we please discuss this business with Deucalion tomorrow?”

“If you would just—”

“ _Tomorrow._ ”

Whatever else is said is muttered under the breath, and quickly swallowed up by the sound of the door slamming shut. From his perch, he listens, hoping for a sign that his target has not left with their company. He has no idea if the woman who was speaking even  _is_  his target, but he has to assume that whomever remains in the room must be the one he was sent for. Unfortunately, it sounds as if the room has become empty. There’s nothing else he can hear, no matter how he strains his ears. Which is probably why the hand, that shoots down from the window and yanks him up by his collar, surprises him so much.

He yelps—the village can never know he did that— and kicks out wildly, trying to free himself from their grip before they get a good look at him. He hadn’t had the time to prepare a proper mask, like the other Journeyers. His only protection is a thin fox mask, made of nothing but paper, scraps of leaves, and a bit of twine he found along his journey. It flutters, and threatens to fall from his face as he’s shoved against the wall.

There’s silence, and then a soft huff of disbelief from the woman in front of him. She’s beautiful, he can’t deny that. Long, dark hair that’s gone a bit wild in their struggle, sharp cheekbones with a dusting of freckles, and fierce, glowing-red eyes. Beautiful. Dangerous. Alpha.

He silently curses himself for letting them trick him into this mission, but it’s pointless. He is dead, he was dead the moment he crawled under that windowsill. He was dead the moment he stepped foot out of his village with the intent to kill her. The Alpha Queen.

They hadn’t  _told_  him.  _Why_  didn’t they just tell him?

“Well this is not what I expected,” she murmurs, looking his masked face over with a sharp frown. “You’re nothing but a child.”

“I—I’m eleven!”

“You’re a  _child_ ,” she repeats firmly.

“It’s my duty,” he croaks.

“According to whom?”

His mouth remains tightly shut, and he does nothing more than stare unblinking at her. The queen stares back—much more terrifying—and waits. The terrible thing of it is, the words bubble up almost immediately. They threaten to spill forth in some desperate attempt to save himself from the punishment of the elders. Or from her, perhaps. But a traitor is worse than a failed assassin. An assassin is hanged, a traitor is cursed beyond life itself.

“Who would send a boy to kill a queen?” She muses, her eyes sliding from his mask to his dirtied clothing. It was black, when he began his trip. Freshly dyed and prepared for his first Journey. By the time he had reached the town, dust and sun had turned the fabric a muddy gray color. He knows he doesn’t exactly make an imposing figure, as short and grungy as he is, but his plan had involved more  _not being seen at all,_  and less direct confrontation with the damn Alpha Queen.

“Do you even have a weapon?”

“Of course I do!” He snaps, before thinking. The hand pressed against his throat tenses just enough to make him wheeze, while the other slips into his pockets and pulls out the blade the elders had given him. Even sheathed, it’s beautiful. With red-black lacquered wood and gold etchings of the Tree of Life, it’s a blade worthy of a true Journeyer.   
Any other time, any other place, he would have been proud to carry the blade.

But not here, not with that sharp expression on the queen’s face. The queen he was supposed to have killed with that blade.

Gods, this is awkward.

“So this is not some poor joke, then. Not with a blade like this,” she remarks, turning the sheath over in her hand. She meets his eye, and asks, “Do you know how to use it?”

“O-of course…”

“Really?”

He nods, almost shameful, and her eyes finally fade from Alpha red to a soft hazel. It’s not what he expected—then again, none of this is.

“I have decided…” she begins, her gaze boring into him just as strongly without dangerous glow. “I’m going to let you go—”

“You are?!” He bursts out, sending his fox mask fluttering up from his face, and slipping down past his chin. She studies his face, but he sees no recognition in her expression. And how could she know him, after all? He never left his village before last week, never set foot in Beacon Hills before today. The mask suddenly feels foolish—childish—not the same symbol of the strength and pride that the elder’s masks are. Nothing but paper and leaves and  _stupid, stupid, stupid._

His shame grows sharp and potent, and he doesn’t miss the way the queen’s nose twitches before her expression breaks into a beautiful smile.

“I am letting you go, with one condition.”

He flinches, knowing that she can’t ask anything less than the betrayal of his people. Knowing that if she asks, he may not be strong enough not to answer.

Still smiling, she continues, “Give me a name for you, I wish to know who to call for when I’m in need of favors in the future.”

He blinks, even more confused. “You wanna know my name? That’s it?”

“Your name for your life.” She tilts her head and flashes her eyes at him, letting him know it’s a command, not an offer. “I think that is a fair bargain, don’t you?”

He’s already nodding feverishly before she even asks, willing to take freedom for a few favors somewhere down the line. They couldn’t be that bad, right? She’s a good queen, so everyone says.

Well, and she  _is_  letting him go. Hopefully.

Satisfied with his answer, she drops her hand from his throat—no claws, never any claws—and steps back. “Well then, boy assassin, what do I call you?”

Well, this is it. He licks his lips, and offers the queen a sheepish grin. “Stiles. You can call me Stiles.”

 

* * *

 

 

  
It’s only one year later when the royal family is slaughtered, and the castle burned. They say you could hear the screams all the way down in the lower towns. They say that the castle guards fought brilliantly, and bravely. They say that the heads of the king and Queen were tossed into the street, devoid of their crowns and left to rot. They say the children were first. They say they were brilliant and brave, as well.

They say these things until the new king silences them, and then there’s nothing left of the royal Hale family but whispers.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Stiles doesn’t learn of their passing for another five years. It’s not  _really_  his fault, honestly. Seeing as he somewhat had no choice in the matter, he can’t shoulder the blame. Mostly. Well, perhaps a bit.

His release from the queen had been all well and good, but he was a wanted man—boy—the moment he failed to complete his mission. Not that the elders truly expected him to succeed, obviously. Any fool could see that Stiles was set up to fail. The  _why_  of it was what drove him to return to the village, regardless of the danger it posed. It was… incredibly stupid.

The alarm goes up the moment he passes the outer boundary line, a single sharp burst of sound that every villager knows means one of their own has returned. Usually, it’s means for celebration, for another Journey completed. Another success.

Not this time.

Stiles is met first with surprise, then weapons, then a binding spell that sends him to his knees. He doesn’t cry out—he won’t grant them that—but he does level a glare on the smooth, emotionless masks of the elders who step forward.

“Failures are not welcomed home,” one speaks, his mask’s eyes glowing gold. “Your prey yet lives.”

“Strange, how you would know that,” Stiles hisses, trying to raise his head past the heavy, invisible bonds crushing him. “Strange, how I was sent to be a Journeyer to the Alpha Queen.”

He expects gasps from the villagers, maybe some wide eyes, even a good fainting spell. But no one is surprised. The wives, husbands, and widows continue to glare at him with a familiar bitter edge. Even the other young students stare down at him with bored expressions. They knew. They  _all_  knew.

The strength that held him under the window for hours, that kept his mouth shut when the queen asked who sent him, that kept him moving onward towards his inevitable punishment, that holds his head up high, even now… shatters.

“Mieczyslaw, son of none… you are henceforth  **nameless** ,” an elder begins, his arms slowly rising above him. “Your worth the sum of your name, you are  **bound**. Your presence not even a syllable on one’s lips, you will be forgotten. Lost. Eternal and nothing, until the last and only sun sets fire to the world. Only then will you be free, and only then can you regain your name.”   
  
Stiles feels the spell take hold, sees his reflection fade from the villager’s eyes as quickly as his name slips from his mind. He becomes no one as quick as a lit match.

And a year later, the queen forgets what name to call when the fire reaches her door.

 

 

* * *

 

It’s not the most opportune place to beg, but all the best street corners in the upper town are taken, and there isn’t a scrap of cobblestone that’s without a warm body down in the lower. They won’t stay warm for long. There’s more homeless than sellers, these days, which makes the beggar all the more desperate, more pleading.

  
“If you could—no? Yes, alright, keep walking.”

They do just that, not looking twice at him.

“Hello, could you spare some… no, of course you couldn’t,” He sighs, thudding his forehead against his knees. It hurts more than it should, but that’s what happens when you’re mostly skin and bones. He keeps his head there, giving up on the delusion that today will be any different than the last 1,800 days. It would be nice, but no.

Fox is invisible. Not quite literally, he’s still  _there_ , but he’s not  _here_. People don’t tend to notice him, or remember him once they do. He can buy an apple every day from the seller on the corner of the street, and she’ll never remember his face. Or take his money, half the time. Incidentally, he doesn’t get many apples. Only what’s tossed in the gutters at the end of the day. It’s where most of his meals come from, which makes for some lean times. Sometimes, especially during the winter months, Fox is forced to steal. The spell over him protects him from anyone’s full attention, but he still gets a swift kick to the ribs if the seller catches him out of the corner of their eye. Their instincts are just too strong to ignore the ignorable thing stealing their wares. Sometimes it’s worth it, sometimes it’s not.

Something clatters on the cobblestones in front of him, and he jerks his head up because it  _can’t_  be. It is. It’s a coin. Not a small coin, either, it’s a golden round right there on the stones next to his foot. Fox scrambles for it, before someone realizes their mistake, because surely that’s what it is. No one has noticed him in at least five years. It must have slipped through a hole in their pocket.

A whole golden round!

Grinning, he rubs his thumb over the scowling face of Gerard, their ever-angry king. It’s still new to him, as are the dark banners and flags flying over Beacon Hills like vultures over the dead. The way the castle, once inviting and open, seems to have grown cold and empty.   
Although, perhaps that’s because it  _is_  empty, for the most part. Many of the rooms have been repaired, at a great cost to the kingdom, but much of the castle remains unchanged and scarred. Gerard seems to like it that way, if what the whispers say are true. He likes the soot-stained walls, the reminder of just what he was willing to do to ‘earn’ his crown.

Fox has learned quite a lot since his return to Beacon Hills. The journey itself was a trial, trying to survive—to heal himself from the assault of the villagers. For, as soon as he was forgotten, he was a stranger to them. A trespassing stranger. He had barely made it out alive, and with no one to help him, Fox spent years wandering, healing too slowly to do much more than stumble through the woods. Some things, however, never seem to heal. Some wounds  _need_  to be kept open.

Fox shakes the thought from his mind, and rolls the weight of the memories it brings right off his shoulders. Today  _is_  a different day, today the gods granted him a golden round. He could get a room in the tavern,  _and_  a meal! He could buy himself a whole chicken, for eating or maybe even for eggs. He’d have to make a leash and bring it up to the rooftops when he slept but—but, no.

No, he can’t, can he?

Who would sell to him, after all? The rare moment he can catch someone’s attention, it’s never long enough for a transaction. He’s lost food and money to forgetful hands, who take his coin and keep the change. It’s a risk, attempting to buy something, and renting a room would be nothing different. By morning, they’d be after him with clubs and swords for sleeping in a room he ‘didn’t pay for.’

Fox heaves a sigh, and rubs his thumb over the coin once more. A golden round… the first he’s ever held in his own two hands, and completely useless. Looking up, Fox tries to find the finery of someone able to drop such a coin without much notice. They’d have to be rich, probably dressed in blues or deep reds, most likely decorated with those ridiculous fluffy things around their sleeves and necks. What are those even for? Swatting flies? Do the rich have many flies in their fancy homes? Incidentally, what does one do when the fly is swatted, anyway? All their fine, crisp whites will be stained with fly innards. That’s actually quite funny.

Wait, there’s a spot of blue. Focus.  _Focus_.

Whoever it is, they’re making their way through the marketplace crowd too quickly for his eyes to follow. Fox is up and running after them before he realizes it, his bony elbows helping him cut through the hordes of people in a way his voice never could. Invisible people don’t bother with, ‘excuse me.’

Dark hair and blue seems to vanish behind a leather seller, the stench of piss and death earning the stall a wide space in the crowded street. Fox skids around the corner, picking up speed as the alleyway before him opens up. They’re moving fast, whoever they are. This is not normal behavior, not for some rich, idiot-lord. They tend to linger and lurk around the market, eyeing the pretty sellers until they’re forced to flirt back because this is a  _lord_ , and that’s what’s expected of you. Lords do not run down stinking alleyways after dropping a large coin in the street.

Fox has a split second to wonder if this is, perhaps, a trap, before an arm catches him under the jaw, and sends him flat on his back. He has another second to think, ’ _ow_ ,’ before a shadow falls over him, and something hits him hard in the face.

 

* * *

 

  
The sky puts on a wonderful show as the sun begins its decent behind the mountains once again, but Derek’s focus could not seem to settle on one thing for most of his journey home. Whenever he thought about what happened in town, it was as though his mind simply slid away from the memory, like oil on water. It’s not until he walks through the entrance hall that he realizes he’s managed to walk all the way home without fetching the carpet Mrs. Marten had sent out for repairs. Grumbling at his unusual show of absentmindedness, Derek creeps down the hall and slips into the first empty room he finds. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the low light of the oil lamps, but when they do, the first thing he notices is the smudge of blood on his knuckles, and a faint stain on the sleeve of his jacket.

Derek can’t, for the life of him, remember where they came from. Surely he would recall a fight? A brush against one of the sickly, perhaps? It is definitely blood, he can smell it. Casting a quick look around the drawing room he’s commandeered, Derek lifts his arm up to his nose and breathes in deeply.

“What on  _earth_  are you doing now?” A voice asks, a sneer evident in their tone.

He doesn’t bother to lift his head, it’s only Lydia, after all. One would think she was used to this sort of thing, after the past four years of his presence in the Marten home.

“I dropped the coin,” he grunts, taking another breath. “It’s as you suggested, I can’t remember anything after that.”

“And that explains the sniffing,   
I’m sure,” She muses, settling down in one of the ornate wing-backed chairs scattered around the room. “You know mother doesn’t like it when you do that around company.”

“You are not company.”

“The company in the  _dining_  room, you imbecile.”

That gets him to look up, studying her with a frown. She doesn’t seem pleased about guests, which isn’t all that surprising considering their usual company ranges from the snobbish man-children aiming to court her, to their snobbish parents aiming to get something from her mother. Why Mrs. Marten continues to entertain them, Derek does not know, but it seems to be another one of those  _Things You Simply Do._

“What is it?” He asks sharply.

Lydia arches a perfect brow, but her scent give her away. She’s distressed by something—something more than the usual annoying guests. When she doesn’t answer, Derek lowers his arm, and pads across the room to kneel beside her chair. “Lydia… come on.”

“I didn’t want it to work,” she admits, at last. She rolls her eyes at his confused look. “The coin bit, I was hoping it would come to nothing.”

Derek stiffens, anger rushing through him immediately. “Why would you even—”

“Derek, it’s not like that,” Lydia quickly insists. “I’m concerned how this will effect you. Don’t look at me like that, you idiot, I’ve seen what this obsession has done to you in the past. Don’t think I’ve forgotten how you arrived here, four years ago.”

Derek unconsciously shrinks away from her, or rather, his memory of that time. He had not been… well. His entire family was dead, burnt or cut down by the Argent family one by one. And Derek saw them—was forced to  _watch_  as Kathryn and her grandfather killed his little cousins, his grandmother, his younger brother. Until there was no one left, all lost in flame and blood. He still doesn’t know how he escaped—one moment he’s surrounded by fire, the next he’s in the woods, clutching the parcel his mother had shoved into his pocket before she tore her clothes free and ran towards their attackers.

His mother died on four legs, his father on two.

“Derek.”

He blinks away ash and embers to find Lydia’s concerned eyes staring back at him. She knows where he went, she always seems to know.

“Derek, you…” she hesitates, only for a moment, before she sets her shoulders and speaks, “You forget to eat, even now. You drive yourself mad over that stupid mask—and for what? What will you gain from finding them?”

Derek stands, dragging his fingers through his hair until he remembers the smudge of blood, and glares at his knuckles. “I need to know who it is who failed my family.”

“You don’t know that they did.”

“Then where were they?!” He snarls, baring a hint of fangs at her. If he expects her to cower, she doesn’t. Not Lydia.

“Maybe they died in the fire, derek,” she snaps in reply, waving a hand in his direction. “Have you ever considered that?”

“No… no, my mother had the mask in her hands when the attacks began. She said…” he stalls, trying to remember her exact words. “She said she needed them, but she couldn’t remember their name.”

“So perhaps they died before the fire.”

Derek tucks his hands into his armpits, and scowls at her. He knows she’ll see through his posture, but he doesn’t care. She’s pushing his buttons.

“All i’m saying, Derek, is that you need to try to move on from the damn mask and try to find other things to do with your life.” He snorts, she narrows her eyes. “Don’t you  _dare_ scoff at me. I’ve put up with this obsession of yours for years, now. I’m the only one who’s stood by you when you run around the city looking for clues. I’m the one risking discovery by using my—ah—'gifts’ to try to track this mysterious person down for you. I’m the one who has been here, watching you fall apart every time a trail leads to nothing, and i’m the one who has to pick you back up again.”

Derek pulls his arms tighter against his chest. “You don’t  _have_  to do any of that.”

“Yes I  _do_!” She hisses. “You're—you’re practically my brother, you utter nincompoop. Of course i’m going to help you.”

“Will you, though?” He asks, hating how his voice comes out sounding small. “With the coin?”

Something softens in her gaze, and she slumps into the chair in the most unladylike way. “I will… but can we just… can this be the last time, for now? Just for a while.”

He doesn’t want it to stop, he realizes. It feels too much like giving up, like letting them down  _again_. Derek knows it’s probably not healthy to think like that, but why start caring about that now? He knows there’s something to this coin trick, especially with the way his memory seems to jump about during his journey through the upper town. If he could just… focus, maybe this will be the last time he ever has to search for the traitor who let his family die.

“Fine,” he agrees at last. “After this, I will let it rest. For now.”

The thankful look she sends him makes something uncomfortable squirm in his gut. He’s still not good with the Marten family brand of concern. Behind all their social masks, they’re fiercely caring about those they decide are worth their time.

“Alright, then,” she sighs, sitting upright again. “I will activate the tracing spell after dinner.”

“We could do it—”

Lydia holds up a hand. “No, we cannot. We’ve been blessed with Lord Wooster’s presence tonight, and i’m not leaving my mother to suffer it alone.” She stands, brushing away some imagined dust from her skirts, and moved towards the door. “Go get cleaned up, and be ready before the bell. I refuse to be seated next to him, and only you can save me.”

Derek huffs out a laugh, and waves her off. It’s not till she’s gone that he looks down at his bloodied hand again, and frowns. He promised. He will go to dinner, of course, but that scent… it’s so familiar, yet…

Derek lifts his arm to his face, and sniffs it again. It’s finally starting to fade, the usual scents of the Marten home already permeating his clothing. Just as it grows faint, something clicks.

He knows where he’s smelled it before—a thousand times, steadily growing less and less potent over time. Until there was a scent no more.

The small fox mask his mother clutched in her hands as the first fire arrows fell through the castle’s window. The mask he pulled from the parcel months later, and with shaking hands, nearly tore apart. The mask that sits up in his room, carefully sealed in a dry casket to preserve the leaves and paper.

Derek curls his claws into the palm of his hand, and growls. He knows exactly who that scent belongs to.


	2. The Unwanted Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek finds his target
> 
>  
> 
> a little too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings at the end:

Cold.

 

Cold like the stream that ran by the loveless hut he grew up in. Fifty seven steps from the doorway, five ‘wades’ across. He remembers spending more time inventing ways to catch crayfish than studying the ways of the shadows. He remembers that the punishment for spending hours drifting around quiet pools was harsh, but worth it. He remembers a cold as sharp as a slap across his reddening cheeks.

Fox struggles to think of reasons why he feels that cold now, but his thoughts are sluggish and incomplete. He hasn’t seen that stream in years.

_First frost? Cant be, it’s not even October yet._

_Ah, Mr. Tutman must have… used the smaller oven today. Yes._

_Isn’t that unusual… for autumn?_

Fox can’t stop the bubble of despair that wells up inside of him. There will be no bread to 'borrow’ today, meaning he will most likely spend the hours ignoring the cold  _and_  the hunger. There’s never much food to spare when they use the small oven, and he’s not about to put Mr.Tutman out of business. A cold chimney and no bread, the day is already off to a terrible start. Maybe he can try… maybe…

  
Why does everything hurt?

  
This is more than a few stiff joints, a  _lot_  more. His face, the back of his head, his bottom—everything hurts. He feels like the leather merchant ran him over with his cart, again. Fox does recall the stench of his wares… But wasn’t there someone else? Someone in blue?

Fox snaps open his eyes, and for one panicked second, thinks he’s gone blind. It’s one of his largest fears, along with moth-spiders, the Journeymen, and apricot pits. (Such fruit is not to be eaten while jumping from rooftop to rooftop, less you want a pit in your lung.) Ridiculous fears aside, he would lose his last grasp on reality, without sight. No one may see him, but he sees them. He learns their names and faces, he knows them. It’s important, he can’t live without his—oh, wait. He blinks up at the faint blue sky above him. Not blind, then, just a bit stunned.

Once his eyes finally focus, however, he’s both relieved and lost. Where are his usual rooftops and chimneys reaching for the morning sky? Where are the fist birds, taking off from their roosts to swoop through the sky for bugs? Where is his damned baked bread?

Scowling, Fox turns his head as much as it will allow and discovers that he’s not resting on his usual rooftop, but laying on the freezing ground in an alleyway. He can feel something crusted on his lips, spilled down his cheeks and neck. He can feel a draft in the sleeve of his gray tunic—there must be a new tear in the elbow. He can also feel a bruise welling up on the side of his head like a big, throbbing, bloaty thing.

“Fuck,” Fox hisses, before his tongue darts out to try to moisten his cracked lips. They taste like dried blood, probably from his aching nose. He can’t recall much after entering the alleyway, but the man in blue must have noticed him following and knocked him out. It’s not too uncommon, his presence drawing a seconds notice when one feels wary enough. The sellers in the marketplace catch him enough times for him to keep his stealing on the periphery. Still, it’s rare to be attacked so… thoroughly. He hasn’t experienced it in a long while. Not since his village turned on him.

Smiling bitterly to himself, Fox forces his body to roll on its side as slowly as possible. His joints scream, his head throbs, and his stomach joins in with a warning gurgle.

_'Don’t move, I’ll make you chuck up all that nothing you ate.’_

Fox curses his luck for the millionth time, and rests his forehead against his arm. He can’t be sick, it will only make things worse. He needs… gods, his skin feels clammy, and numbingly cold. It’s really no wonder, after spending a full night out in the street. Sure, there are probably hundreds of poor, vagabond people in Beacon Hills. Fox has seen far too many men and women laid out between the upper city buildings, tucked into whatever corner they can find. They, at least, tend to have blankets or someone to share heat with. And if they can sleep, they sleep. There is no law against carving out a hovel for yourself, just as long as you don’t do it on the main streets. No where that the king may travel, lest he see the poverty he’s forced upon them.

But, even then—even with the growing number of slumped bodies hidden under shawls and ratty blankets, a sprawled figure like his own tends to get noticed. Someone tossed into the street, clearly unconscious and bleeding. They’d be noticed, if not by the city guards, than at least by one of the street-dwellers.

Fox, of course, is left to bleed and freeze half to death. And isn’t that a cheerful thought? All it would take is one winter night without his chimneys, one slip and fall, and no one would ever know he was here. He could die on the steps of the castle, and they would walk over him like a stray autumn leaf. He’d be gone, without leaving behind a single memory of his existence.

“Oh stop it,” he mutters to himself, and gives moving another try. It’s difficult, but he does manage to push himself up until he’s at least halfway vertical. It’s not the sort of victory worth celebrating, but at least it means less of his body is against the cold ground, and the wall he’s leaning against is kind of nice. Very supportive. Fox approves.

It’s very… it’s…

Um… hmm.

“Freessh fish!”

Fox squawks, startled out of his doze by one of the first screams of the marketplace. Was it already that late? He should really get back to his spot and warm up a little.

“Get your freeeesh fish!”

Fox shifts. His body protests. Maybe he’ll try again in a few minutes.

“Candles!” Someone else screams, cutting the fish seller off mid-yell. “Nice smell! Long lasting!”

Maybe he can push himself up the wall and—yeah, that’s not so bad. His legs are only wobbling a little, and if he puts his arms out for balance, he only looks like a complete idiot.

“Pies! Hot right out of the oven! Meat! Squash! Jam!”

Fox unconsciously licks his lips, and stumbles towards the smells and sounds of the marketplace. Pies would be good. Pies would be very good.  _How far away is the seller?_  he wonders, peering out from the mouth of the alley.

He’s immediately assaulted by, “CANDLES!”

And, “Fish! First catch of the day!”

Also, “Beautiful candles! Light up your home!”

Nothing like a little competition for two completely different wares. Sighing, Fox squints through the first beams of light cutting through the marketplace, and tries to locate the pie seller. They’re usually next to the vegetable sellers, enticing the children sent out by their mothers to fetch ingredients for dinner. It almost always works. Fox does end up eating more cold meat pies than fresh vegetables.

The candle seller’s singing a song about wax now. There’s no carts full of turnips yet. Where’s the damn pie seller?

A man with an acorn hat steps in front of Fox, waving a smelly, dead thing in his hands. He bellows, “FREEESH FISH!”

And, yes, no. That’s quite enough.

  
Fox presses a hand to his head, and turns away from the all out brawl that’s begun between the sellers. It’s too much for him right now. His stupid skull feels like it’s broken. Forgoing the pies and ignoring his stomach’s growls of protest, Fox sneaks his way behind a few of the empty stalls that line the road. He ducks to avoid a flying candle stick, and scuttles away from the war cries behind him.

It seems to take years to get to the King Tut Tavern and an eternity more just to climb the barrels stacked in the back, slither up the drainpipe, brace himself between two corners of the building, and finally claw his way on to the rooftop. Relief washes over him, smelling like baked bread and cinnamon rolls. Even from the edge of the roof, he can feel the heat radiating from the large chimney positioned directly beside its smaller counter part. He crawls over the nest of blankets and old rags he’s made for himself, and collapses next to the hot stones. He’s unable to do much more than lazily cover himself, and curl into warmth with a soft moan of pain. He can feel his consciousness slipping away again, far too soon. Fox spares a second to wonder why he hasn’t been shivering, before the dark swallows him up.

 

* * *

 

 

  
There really isn’t anything that can be done about dinner.

An evening with Lord Wooster and guests will go as well as Derek expects it to. The entire meal is spent with their usual polite chatter, interrupted only by Lord Wooster’s loud, pointless observations and oddly cheerful lamentations of his own situation. It’s as if he has no Idea what’s going to come out of his mouth next, and yet… persists to let it fly open at any given moment. Lydia, of course, has never had patience for him or his friends, and leaves as early as her mother allows it. Unfortunately, Derek is one of the few who are trapped by obligation to spend after dinner drinks with the man. Suffice to say, he still hasn’t grown on him, and Derek misses his chance to catch Lydia before she vanishes into her rooms. By the time he’s free of Wooster’s nonsense, it’s well past the hour appropriate to knock on her door. Derek stalks back to his room, anger and despair bubbling under his skin. To find that scent again, after catching only a hint of it months ago, is both invigorating and infuriating. He knows—he finally knows for  _sure_  that the masked man who let his family die is somewhere in Beacon Hills. Derek is so close to finding him, and yet, he’s held back by the whims of Lydia, and the unfortunate demands of 'polite company’.

Growling low in the back of his throat, Derek tears his dinner jacket off and tosses it on his bed. Even after changing and cleaning up, he could still smell the blood of his family’s murderer. It haunted him throughout dinner, spoiling his appetite more, even, than the ridiculous conversation. Horses, they had been talking about horses for some two hours. He knows he should be thankful—and he  _is_ —but Derek has never found the patience for society as a whole. He remembers his sister’s threats of tossing him out of the carriage as they rode through the city. Laura always thought it was funny, how he hid and stayed silent during the royal balls and dinners. She never did understand how much it terrified him. How he wishes she were here to mock him now, already twenty two and still loathing to join a good party or find a suitable dance partner.

Well, there is Lydia, after all. She teases him enough for ten sisters, and her mother is just as persistent in her attempts to find someone for him to marry. Someone rich, but not close enough to the king to catch any notice. Never that.

Derek pauses, shirt half undone, and glances out the window. If anyone from their dinner party was to spread stories about him, it would be Lord Wooster. There should be no recognition, not with the name 'Edmond’ and a vague suggestion of some distant relation to the Martin Family, but it still worried him. Any moment now, Gerard could swoop down and squash the last living member of the Hale family. Any day, someone might recognize him from the old portraits—if there were any left unburnt. It doesn’t matter that Lydia has told him time and time again that he’s safe, that no one could ever recognize in him that shy, yet happy boy. She claims he doesn’t smile enough for that.

Derek knows better. There is no way the Argent family failed to notice one less body in the castle. Someday the impostor king will find him, and on that day he will most likely die clawing Gerard’s throat out. Which is why he must find the mask’s owner tomorrow. His time for revenge is limited.

Rolling the tension from his shoulders, Derek finishes undressing for bed, and sends a silent promise to his family to find the person who failed them almost as much as he did.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“No.”

“Lydia—”

“Derek”

He scowls. “You should call me Edmond.”

Lydia waves him off, and takes another sip of her morning tea. “I think you’ll find that we are quite secure here,  _Derek_. I don’t see the point in pretending you’re someone else when you barge into my sitting room and demand I cast spells before I’ve even eaten.”

“You’ve already had eggs, I can smell it.”

Lydia wrinkles her nose at him. “What have I told you about talking to me about what you 'smell’?”

Derek ducks his head to hide a small smile, and settles back into his chair with a drawn-out sigh. He knows he can’t persuade her to do a thing before she wishes to, he just wishes she shared his sense of urgency. Who knows how long the mask owner will hold on to the coin. For all he knows, it’s already passed a thousand hands and made its way back to the castle itself. He  _needs_ her to locate it, preferably now.

“You promised,” he reminds her, trying to temper his frustration into something more sad and helpless.

“Oh don’t pout,” she scoffs, shaking her head at him over her delicate tea cup. “You can’t fool me into thinking you’re not a gigantic werewolf that could rip me to pieces if he felt so inclined.”

“And yet you always claim to be unafraid of such things.”

“Oh, trust me, i’m not afraid of  _you_.”

“You should be,” he says darkly, and looks away from her raised eyebrow. “You know how I am around the full moon, how my control slips.”

He hears the soft clatter of her cup being returned to her breakfast tray, and flinches when a hand touches his arm.

“Derek… you know I will never fear you,” he snorts. “Stop it. I’ll never truly be scared of you. Startled, yes. Annoyed, constantly. But I can’t bring myself to fear what you are. If I began to, I would have to fear myself, wouldn’t I?”

Derek turns, fighting another smile when he sees her wry expression. She’s lying, but it’s a small one. They both know that, somewhere underneath all their perceived confidence, is fear of themselves. Lydia still wakes up screaming, still finds herself in rooms she did not intend to enter, or even outside in the grass. She never strays far, Derek won’t let her, but he knows it frightens her as much as the full moon frightens him.

“Didn’t I throw one of your previous tea sets into the fireplace during a full moon?”

“After I foolishly told you to, 'let your miserable mask quest die,’” she reminds him, smiling sadly. “And we have already come so far from that moment, Derek. We’ve learned… which is why I know you’re going to sulk around my rooms until I cast the tracking spell.”

Derek grins, “Oh, so you  _can_  see the future?”

“Oh, be quiet and go get some breakfast while I set up,” she snaps, smacking his arm to send him on his way. Derek complies, if only because she works better without him hovering.

  
Upon his return, he’s surprised to find the sitting room dark. Lydia’s thick, blue curtains have been drawn closed, and pinned together with hair clasps. Derek’s eyes flash blue as his instincts warn him to check the room for intruders, but he’s cut short by an indelicate snort from the middle of the room.

“Must you always do that?” Lydia teases, her face coming into focus amidst the gloom. “You know I work better in the dark.”

Grumbling under his breath, Derek closes the door behind him and makes his way across the room. Once he approaches her, Lydia lights a small candle, and sets it afloat in the bowl of water before her.

“Where do you want me?” He asks, watching the candle settle onto the smooth surface.

“There,” she points across from the bowl, “and seated, please. No looming allowed.”

Derek grunts in protest, but settles down on the floor across from her with his legs crossed. Her face is even clearer now, with strange negative shadows dancing around her eyes as they always do when he looks at her in the dark. Her expression is serious, despite their banter, and Derek finds himself growing nervous.

“Are you sure?” She asks, her voice muted. “You can never come back from this.”

“I don’t want to come back,” he argues. “Not to this—this  _unknowing_. It’s been years, Lydia. They had their chance to come forward, to apologize for abandoning me and my family.” Derek bares his teeth, and gives a sharp shake of his head. “No, they had their chance. It’s my turn to find them.”

Something shifts in Lydia’s face, and it takes him a moment to recognize pity in her features.

“Don’t do that,” he snarls.

“Don’t make me, then.”

Derek glares at her, clenching and unclenching his fists as he fights the urge to let his claws free. It won’t do any good, he’d only sink them into his own flesh and get blood on Lydia’s carpet again. He’s still not forgiven for the last time that happened.

Derek takes a deep breath, and lets it out. “Please… just do it.”

Lydia stares at him for a long moment, unmoving and silent. Finally, she looks down at the candle, and murmurs, “fine.”

“But I don’t think you will like what you’ll find,” she says a bit louder, and casts the spell.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Hot.

Fire, with thick clouds of smoke filling the high arched-ceilings. It seems to spread across the world, every mantlepiece, every book, every tapestry, every bed. The fire consumes everything, grows fat and gluttonous. There’s screams from below—another in reply, is if to tell them that they’re not alone.

_You have me, my voice. I will die with you._

_You don’t die alone._

Someone calls. A mother—she’s screaming in rage. She calls out the names of her children, desperate and terrified.

He sees her, then. Standing in a long corridor of flames, her long hair crinkled and wild with the heat. Her eyes glow red from reflection or rage, he doesn’t know. She calls their names again. She calls and calls and calls until she goes still, as if she hears something, and opens her mouth one more time.

But nothing comes out.

  
Fox jerks awake with a cry of shame, eyes rolling as he tries to escape the heat of the flame. It’s got him, it’s taking over. He deserves it, he deserves it, he deserves it.

He deserves to burn.

 

 

 

* * *

 

Derek is thrilled when the spell works, even if it’s nothing more than a drop of blood on a poorly drawn map of Beacon Hills. His mood only improves from there, as he pulls on a black overcoat, and rides into town to hunt down the owner of the mask. It’s a good sign that the splot of red remains in town, the upper part, too. That means whomever it is most likely held on to the coin for the night, or has only just spent it. Derek can trace them from there, and when he finds them he—he will…

Derek frowns down at the drop of blood nearly blotting out the name of a tavern underneath. He hasn’t actually planned as far as meeting this person. In his mind, the figure remains shadowy, or perhaps old and poisonous like Gerard. In fact, he’s imagined the face of his family’s betrayer as Gerard many times over. It’s not as though it’s a lie, it’s just… not quite the same person. Gerard he will kill, the owner of the mask he will… speak to. Firmly.

Derek scowls and crumples the edge of his map.

Yes, that sounds perfectly reasonable. He’s only spent the past five years of his life hunting this person down for betraying his family, and he’s going to 'speak  _firmly_ ’ to them? What does that even mean? A simple chiding for not showing up to save them? Will he even be able to control the rage he’s kept caged up in his chest? Or perhaps he  _will_  kill this mysterious person, for never even offering condolences or apologies for such betrayal. He really just—he doesn’t know. All Derek knows is where they are, and that he has to find them.

  
The King Tut Tavern is not exactly a high-class establishment. It’s better known for its late night bar-brawls than its rooms and beds, according to the man he spoke to in the market. He’d been bruised and bloodied, looking more like a survivor of a battle than a simple candle-seller. Which is why Derek is surprised to find a friendly atmosphere as he steps through the open doorway of the tavern and winds his way past tables full of people digging into their food. The main room, itself, is decorated with a smattering of strange idols painted gold, and elegant draperies of blood-red and teal. The whole effect is completed by a wooden sarcophagus, stuffed with yet another poorly painted figure of plaster and copper.  
Everyone in the room is a bit sloppy, and he sees a black eye or two, but they seem happy enough to have survived the presumed brawl.

There’s a single man behind the counter when he enters, who spots him and calls out, “Well 'lo to you m'lord! Looking for food?” His eyes slide downward to the map in Derek’s hand, and he flashes a grin. “Ah, I see we have a traveler today! A room, then? I can have the Tut Suite ready for you  _tout suite_!”

Derek blinks at him, and quickly tucks his bloodied map into his pocket. “I—no, none of that.”

That earns him a strange look. “A tad early for a drink, but our ale never runs dry, if that’s what yer lookin’ fer.”

“I’m looking for a man… or perhaps a woman, i’m not—”

“We aren’t that sorta’ place,” the tavern owner interrupts, scandalized. “M'friad you’ll hafta head down two streets for that. Madam Jack’s place.”

“What?”

The man leans over the counter, and, as if the entire tavern hasn’t already heard every word, whispers, “if yer looking for the pleasures of the flesh, m'lord.”

Derek jerks back and sputters, “T-that’s not at all what I meant! I’m… tracking someone. They, ah, stole from me. I was told they were here.”

There’s a few snickers from the tables behind him, but the owner lets out a relieved sigh, and pulls out a dingy cloth from his apron and begins wiping down the bar top. “Well, that m'not sure I can help you with, neither. We’ve only got three rooms full today, and they’re all students of that strange school up in the hills. Don’t think they’ve ever nicked an apple or a penny in their whole lives.” He leans forward to whisper again, “bookly sort, them.”

“Well… he's—they’ve definitely been here recently,” Derek murmurs, eyeing the dirty cloth as it nears him. He knows it’s unlikely the mask owner would be a student, his mother said they were a 'terrible assassin’. Although, she never did explain how, or even why such a thing seemed to amuse her. The students are probably still young, anyway. Too young to be his mystery person.

“Well, I can rent you a room,” the owner offers him. “Feed yah’, let you lurk 'round here for a bit. Maybe they’ll come back, this person of yours.”

Derek nods, considering it. A room would give him some some privacy while he checks over the map again, and full access to the tavern itself would give him a chance to weed out potentials later tonight. That is, if the owner isn’t lying and decides to rat him out to his target before he even has a chance to find them.

“I will take a room,” Derek says, quickly grabbing his purse and making a show of taking out far too many coins for just room and board. “Just to rest in, of course. This  _should_  cover everything, a room, a meal, some discretion.”

Whither or not the owner understands the whole concept of basic bribery, Derek can’t tell, but the man takes his money with no questions and orders a quiet blonde women to show him the way. She leads him to a set of stairs that wind upwards over the back of the bar. The worn and cracking wood groans under them with each step, and Derek finds himself shifting his weight to the edges automatically. They pass several closed doors before reaching the end of the hall and taking a sharp right. There, Derek finds, must be the 'Tut Suite’. The door before them is painted the same weakly gold color as much of the downstairs, and has a rather foreboding, 'Tut’s Tomb’ etched into the wood. The blonde woman stops, unlocks the door, and quickly shuffles back down the stairs without another word. Derek, left to venture forth on his own, pushes the door open with his boot, and leans forward to peer into the room.

The room itself is rather plain, for a so-called 'suite’. It’s not much more than a sturdy bed, a large copper tub for bathing, and a simple writing desk by the window. Someone had made a half-hearted attempt at continuing the theme, and wrapped the bed posts in torn-up fabric that seems to be glued on with a starchy paste. The bug motif was probably accidental.

“You meal.”

Derek jerks around to find the blonde woman standing behind him with a tray in her shaking hands, the gray-blue of her dress already stained with splashes from the stew. He offers her a quick smile, and hurries to take the try from her before she drops it.

“Thank you,” he says, “that bread really does smell divine.”

She visibly brightens at this, and quickly tucks her quivering hands into her apron pockets. “I made the bread myself. Always do, Mr. Tutman says it tastes better when I do it.”

“He didn’t strike me as much of a bread-maker,” Derek comments, taking in a deep breath of fresh baked bread. Perhaps coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all, at least the food seems better quality than the rooms.

“Boyd says it’s 'cuz I get in the Bread Space,” she replies, her smile going shy as her cheeks redden. “He likes it with honey. I put a little pot of it on your tray, I hope you don’t mind.”

“That’s lovely, miss…?”

“Oh… it’s just Erica,” she replies, ducking her head and shuffling backwards out the door. “I—mm… I hope you enjoy it.”

Derek’s smile becomes more sincere, and shifts the tray to one hand so he may offer the other to her. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Erica. And I think I rather will, thank you.”

Erica looks at the hand like it might bite her, and nods a few times before she vanishes down the stairs once more. Derek closes the door with a bemused chuckle, and carries the tray over to the writing desk. Regardless of the heavenly scent of bread, the air itself is rather stale and lacking, he notes, of the scent he had hoped to find. Clearly his target didn’t spend the coin on a 'luxury’ room last night.

With his mood starting to dampen again, Derek sits down at the desk and pulls the map out of his pocket again. With bread in one hand and the map on the other, he starts to plan out his next few days. The spot of blood is still over the tavern, and hasn’t moved since this morning. It could be a fluke—a simple unraveling of magic, even—but Derek has a gut feeling this is where he’s meant to be.

“But where  _are_  they?” He asks the map, and shoves a lump of bread into his mouth when he gets no answer.

The dot doesn’t move. Derek chews. Something scuttles near the bed behind him. The dot doesn’t move. Derek swallows.

“Right…” he tells the map, “I think some air would be good.”

Leaving the map with his food, he leans over the desk to crack open the window. There’s a distinct sucking sound, and his nose is immediately assaulted by the mysterious scent for the first time today. Growling, Derek leans back and shoves the desk away from the window, ignoring the crash of his stew as it hits the floor.

The scent. So potent. Why here? Why now?

Derek shoves the window open further, the warped wood shrieking in protest. He manages to get his entire torso out the window before he takes another deep breath.

Ale soaked wood, mold, old oranges. A hint of smoked meat, tobacco, and chocolate. Dirt. Sick. Heat.

“But  _Where_?” He snarls, twisting and clawing the rest of the way out the window. The scent of grows stronger as he climbs, twisted together with the stale, sickly smell. Whoever his target is, they’re already unwell.

Derek reaches the roof, lifts himself up over the ledge with ease, and stumbles to a halt. The scent is so strong it’s overwhelming, enough to make him sway and put a hand to his head. Something is… off. He knows they’re here, he just can't—he can’t  _find_  them. Derek crouches down, and scans the rooftop a second time. There’s nothing there, just two chimneys and a lot of bird shit.

He scans again. Just two… and bird shit. Just…

He freezes. Something is keeping him from looking near the chimneys. Something or  _someone_.

“Show yourself!” He roars, trying to turn and face the chimneys and failing. There’s a pressure behind his eyes every time he tries to look—every time he shifts forward. His brain is screaming, ’ _NOTHING THERE. THERE’S NOTHING THERE. NOTHING._ ’

Until, suddenly, there is.

“Finally,” he snaps, stomping over to the huddled figure and tearing the grimy mess of blankets away from them. Underneath is a pale-skinned, horribly thin, boy—they’re just a  _boy_. Too thin, sickly, and… and also freshly dead.

Derek feels his breath sucked away, and falls to his knees next to the body.

“No,” he whimpers, reaching out to touch the cooling skin. “ _No_ , you can’t do this to me. Not after—I can’t be too late, you—!” Derek raises a fist and smashes it into the boy’s chest. “You can’t die! I–did not–” He hits again, “Spend–five–miserable–years—!”

The boy convulses under his fist, and lets out a wheeze. Startled, Derek stumbles backwards and stares at the coughing, shivering boy.

“Nnh…”

“Are you… alright?” Derek asks, feeling a bit lost. A dying boy. Where’s that mysterious hooded figure he’s  _hated_  for all these years? This isn’t what he wanted. This isn’t what was supposed to happen.

“Who’re you?” The boy rasps, rubbing his too-thin fingers against his chest. He seems to catch himself for a moment, and jerks his head up to gape at Derek like he’s never seen anything quite like him before. “Wait, h-how are you… you can see me?”

Derek frowns at him. “I can, now that your spell is gone.”

“My… spell?”

“Yes. Whatever shielding spell you had up.”

“ _My_  spell,” he repeats, eyes growing impossibly wider. “You—you can really see me! And hear—” he breaks off as another wave of coughs sends him into a curl of pain. Now that Derek’s got a good look at him, he doesn’t look very well. Besides being recently dead, there’s dried blood all over his face and clothing and a good sized bruise on the side of his head. He remembers the smudge of blood on his coat sleeve, and makes his decision.

“I’m here to help you,” he says, rolling to his feet and offering a hand. “I’ve got a room below, and some food that will do you good.”

The boy eyes his hand, but doesn’t take it. “I don’t even… know who you are, i’m not f-following y-you to your room.”

“I’m…” damn it. “Edmond Martin. A cousin of Lydia Martin. You must have heard of her, surely.”

The boy nods a little, but still doesn’t take his hand. Sighing, Derek crouches down until they’re almost at eye level, and puts a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “If I was here to hurt you, I would have left you dead.”

The boy blinks. “D-Dead? I was  _dead_?”

“Yes, and any moment now you could be again.” He gently squeezes the boney shoulder under his hand. “So would you please do me a favor and come down to where it’s warm?”

Those wide, brown eyes stare at him for a long moment, before they begun to water. “Oh… yes, I—alright. Yes.”

Derek offers him a weak smile, and helps the boy stand up on shaky legs. He knows it’s going to be slow going to get back into the room. He knows that his mother referred to this young man as an 'assassin’, failed or not. He knows that his revenge, or whatever it is that he wanted from the mask owner is probably never going to happen, not like this. But… the future is uncertain, as Lydia always tells him. Maybe he can find something here, even if it isn’t what he wanted.

When the reach the edge of the roof, derek turns to him and asks, “What’s your name, then?”

The boy stumbles to a stop, eyes unfocused and staring out at the void in front of them. “It’s Fox… just Fox.”

 _Like the mask_ , Derek thinks, hating how satisfied a part of him feels for the confirmation.  _Like the small,_  child’s  _mask_.

Lydia was right, like always.

He truly does not like what he’s found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles dies for a short moment. He got better.


	3. Trust in a Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fox's health improves, but his trust does not.

 

 

 

 

 

The strange thing about being a stranger is how all these small familiarities seem to come out of the woodwork. A turn of phrase, an eye roll, the tapping of the fingers. Things that shouldn't be familiar--but somehow, it's almost as though you were expecting them. Things about a body and soul that seem to transcend the possible, leaving Derek feeling oddly exposed. It’s not a comfortable feeling. 

 

There should be no familiarities, no comforts from the person that let his family die. And yet... and yet, he finds himself becoming more at ease as he watches his bread and honey disappear into Fox's stomach like magic. He feels no threat, no danger tickling up his spine. Even his nose finds nothing more offensive than unwashed body and hints of illness. 

 

"S' good," the boy murmurs into his bread, his eyes darting up to Derek for the millionth time since they clambered through the window. 

 

"I'll be sure to pass along your compliments," Derek replies, offering a reassuring smile. Fox startles at his response, as he has to every remark so far. It's as though he never expects a reply, each and every time Derek speaks to him. It fills Derek with the urge to amend that, to comfort Fox into speaking like normal people. Which is rather an odd feeling, for someone who likes to avoid most conversation. 

 

Derek adds, "My apologies about the soup, I knocked it over on my way out the window."

 

The boy glances at the smear of meaty stew on the floor and offers a weak shrug before going back to devouring the last of the bread. Derek's smile drops away as soon as his attention is diverted, and finds himself studying his guest with a careful scrutiny. Fox appears young, but perhaps not quite as young as Derek had first thought. He's closer to the same age as those mysterious scholars from the mountains, it seems. But there is something older reflected on his face, some weariness in the hollow of his cheeks—in the shadows of his eyes. He has seen years of unkindness, and that has aged him in the same way as Derek's loss.

 

He has never felt as old as he does now, however. Sitting face to face with this his sole purpose for living, and finding it a bitter pill. 

 

Who sends a child to kill a queen?  He must have been nine or ten at the time, wearing a paper mask as a disguise, crawling through the Queen-Alpha's window at night with nothing but a small blade. What sort of foolish bravery was that boy made of? But more importantly, what sort of foolish ideas did someone put in his head to try to kill himself in such a way? If it wasn't for his mother's kindness, Fox would have joined his predecessors in the dungeons, or worse, in the ground. A wolf kills those who invade their territory, especially those sent in challenge. Derek shudders to think of what would have happened if she hadn't realized he was just a child before she struck. 

 

The boy glances at him again, and Derek notices the glassy eyes and cheeks flushed with fever. "You should rest," he says, "And perhaps a doctor should be—" 

 

"No!" The boy yelps, pushing away from the desk and scuttling away from Derek like a frightened animal. "No doctor. No one. Please." 

 

Derek stands, hands up to placate him, and says, "I'm simply concerned about your health, but I don't have to call a doctor. My cousin can come—"

 

"No one!" 

 

"She's very kind and can help lower your fever," Derek continues, watching Fox's eyes dart to the window. "Or... I can have her leave her remedy at the door, if you like." 

 

Fox snuffles a bit, and rubs the back of his hand over his nose. "What's in it?" 

 

"The remedy?" 

 

"Yeah. What's in it? Oregano oil?" 

 

Derek blinks, surprised. "Ah, yes, I believe so. I know there is lemon and honey." 

 

"Won't help the fever," Fox argues, skirting the bed and inching towards the door. "It needs willow, or... or birch." 

 

"I don't know as much as she does about these things," Derek admits as he follows him around the bed with his hand held up. "But I will take some myself to prove its validity to you, if you would trust me." 

 

The scoff is expected, as is the coughing fit it inspires. It sends Fox curling inward, nearly collapsing where he stands.

 

"Come, please lie down," Derek urges, reaching for him and finding the boy pliant enough to move to the edge of the bed. "I'll go fetch the remedy myself, I'll only be—" 

 

Fox grips his arm and whimpers, "No! No... stay. Don't go anywhere. Please." 

 

Frowning, Derek eases himself down to sit beside him, and lets the boy hold on to his arm. He doesn't understand how Fox can go from trying to escape to clinging to Derek like a child. Perhaps it's the fever making him behave so strangely, or that sad sort of longing he's seen in every glance sent his way. Longing and fear seem to be warring in the boy's mind.

 

"Please," Fox whispers, curling his thin fingers into Derek's shirtsleeve. 

 

Derek wants to go—he _needs_ to confer with Lydia, to ask her how she knew that he would find something other than what he was searching for. He needs a moment to breathe, and maybe scream away five years of rage that has no where to go. He needs Lydia's firm, no-nonsense logic, not this terrified, sick boy with too-large eyes and shaking hands. 

 

But, alas, this terrified, sick boy needs _him_. 

 

"I'll stay," he says, and swallows down the scream. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Fox feels things in parts. He remembers darkness, then light. He remembers a pale face above him, frustrated tears, a deep ache in his chest. He learns his savor's name is Edmond, but it doesn't seem to fit the man who sat to his left while he ate some familiar bread. He wonders what happened with the window and the stew, wonders why he's studied with such careful eyes. He feels panic—he doesn't want to meet anyone else yet. It's been too long, far too long. He can't do it. He _can't_. 

 

Nor can he be alone. It's been too long. And Edmond, with his sad eyes, is warmer and kinder than Fox deserves. He feels it in parts, in the relaxation of the arm in his grip, the way the man seems to settle there beside him and grow silent. He feels like everything might be all right now, if he only holds on. 

 

Is he dead? Did he truly die? Is this the world between—not heaven or hell but something worse? And if this is how a ghost feels, then what was he before? Before Edmond could see and hear him; before he could touch the world again.

 

"Rest," the man tells him, and Fox finds himself being tipped backwards into the bed. He feels a spike of fear, a warm, reassuring hand on his cheek, then nothing. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It's another dream of fire. 

 

It was not his intention to sleep, he was meant to stay vigilant over his fevered guest. But holding in five years of anger and fear is exhausting, and so sleep takes him away into his hellish memories once again. 

 

There are red bubbles of pain on his arms from pushing past the burning curtains around his bed. He slept too deeply, too long. Most of his room is on fire, his precious books and old toys, the blanket his grandmother made him for his birthday. If they are on fire, then what of his family? 

 

His _family_. Gods, he has to find his sisters, his parents. 

 

Derek howls over the roar of fire, and hears a response soon after. His name, called so weakly he almost misses it. He drives himself forward, past the crackling demons the surround him. The fire has sucked all the moisture out of the air, leaving Derek's throat dry and painful as he attempts another howl. It's more of a gasp. He doesn't hear his name a second time, just fire and screams. 

 

He can't find them, any of them. There's nothing but fire and dark shadows with snarling faces. 

 

Someone laughs wickedly nearby, and Derek follows it. He follows it to—he follows it to—to—

 

 

Derek wakes with practiced silence. He's first aware of his claws embedded in the palms of his hands, the shirt stuck to his back with sweat, then the smaller body pressed into his side. There's not a sound coming from his bed mate besides a slow, squeaky snore escaping through a snot-filled nose, and it's fine. He's back. He's safe, as safe as he'll ever be. 

 

Moving carefully, Derek removes himself from the tangle of thin fingers and spindly legs and slides off the bed. He casts a quick eye over Fox, making sure he's as asleep as he seems, and shucks off his sweaty shirt. Rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders, Derek turns to keep his back away from the window and prying eyes. 

 

There is one way someone might know his true heritage, a symbol anyone in the kingdom would recognize from the royal family. The triskelion tattoo on his back, a brave or foolish thing to do after the murder of his entire family, but something he needed desperately after their loss. It’s not a grave risk, as Derek doesn’t spend much time shirtless around company, but he’s always careful when his skin is exposed. He laments the fact that he will have to put the sweat-soaked shirt back on before Fox awakens. 

 

There is also the matter of Fox’s clothing to consider. He’s wearing nothing more than rags—mere remnants of a shirt and trousers. The only thing in somewhat decent condition were his leather shoes, and even those had some areas worn dangerously thin. Derek frowns down at the sleeping figure, and tries to plan around Fox’s reluctance to socialize. It’s somewhat understandable, considering his self-inflicted reclusive spell work and his previous employment. 

 

Unless... 

 

Derek narrows his eyes at Fox. Unless it’s not in the past. Fox could still very well be an assassin waiting for his next job. That would explain the seclusion, the spell, the reluctance. But it could also just as easily be a sick kid crawling back to his den to die. 

 

A shudder runs through him at the memory of what he found up on the roof. Fox _had_ died. This crumpled, exhausted boy had been dead only a few hours ago, and here Derek is naming him an assassin. 

 

Then again... 

 

Derek studies Fox’s sleeping face, and pulls his shirt back on. 

 

Then again, it’s always better to be safe than sorry. 

 

Derek pulls out a slip of paper from desk and jots down a quick note to Lydia. After another quick glance at his guest, he exists the room and makes his way down the crooked stairs to the tavern. 

 

“Ah, you’re up early,” the owner calls out, sounding surprised. His usual clientele probably slept much later. 

 

“I have a letter to send, if you have a runner?” 

 

“O’Course, course. I’ll send someone as soon as they’re done in the kitchen,” the owner replies, reaching a hand out for the note. 

 

Derek hesitates, but only for a second. The note gives nothing too dire away, only that he found something he isn’t quite prepared to handle, and could use her immediate advice and cold remedy. If someone were to read it, as Derek assumes someone will, it should give nothing away of his situation or newly found guest. 

 

“How much?” He asks as he hands the note over. 

 

“Free with the room, sir. No worries.” 

 

Derek doubts that’s typical, but he had given the man extra coin for his silence. He hopes this charity is a reflection of that and not something else. He isn’t sure he could handle much else.

 

 

* * *

 

Fox wakes to the smell of meat and the delicious warmth and comfort of a real bed. For a moment, he considers staying where he is and reveling in the luxury of a well-stuffed mattress and actual blankets, but the smell of food has his stomach crying for attention and it’s not long before his companion lets put a huff of laughter. 

 

“I think it’s time you ate,” Edmond says, appearing by the bed with a faint smile. “Think you can manage some ham?” 

 

“Manage it?” Fox scoffs. “No. Inhale it, yes.” 

 

The man eyes him with obvious doubt, but doesn’t stop Fox from crawling forth from his bedding, hobbling over, and sitting himself down at the desk to eat. There’s two, thick slices of ham on the platter and a fried egg atop of a crisp, buttery piece of toast. It’s more food in one place than Fox has seen in quite some time, and it doesn’t take long for him to dig in. 

 

“I asked for an extra dish, but didn’t give away your presence,” Edmond says as Fox starts to shovel food into his mouth. The man seems more distant today, if possible, and it’s putting Fox on edge. There’s nothing particularly trustworthy about the dark-haired stranger, but there was _something_ last night... something that put him at ease. 

 

Fox glances at the man again, and tries to gather what information he can from Little he can see. 

 

Edmond is clearly a fake name, but that’s only to be expected. Names are some of the most valuable currency, and not something easily handed over to strangers. It does suit the image of the man, however. He’s clearly well off, raised in an upperclass home with more education than half the guests in this tavern combined. His clothing is expensive, but worn and well taken care of. Clearly not someone given to waste, but also not likely to have ever known true need. 

 

Fox licks a glob of egg off his hand, and notices Edmond’s lips thin. 

 

Interesting.

 

“I take it you already ate, then?” He asks, watching the man’s eyes follow his tongue as it traces over his lips. 

 

Edmond shrugs—a very _not_ upperclassmen gesture—and leans back against the bed post with another unsure smile. It’s strange, but if Fox didn’t know any better, he would say that Edmond seems to be afraid of him. Which is silly, really. Edmond clearly has a good twenty or thirty pounds more muscle on him than Fox ever could, and probably knows how to handle a sword. Most rich idiots do some sort of sword play, don’t they? 

 

Anyway, what on earth would have the man afraid of his scrawny presence. There’s no way he could know about Fox’s training, no one knew about that outside of the village. Well, one woman did, but she is long gone. 

 

Fox narrows his eyes as he gets back to eating, but whatever threads he’s trying to tie together simply won’t budge. He’s clearly missing something important, and probably still a bit feverish. He needs more time to heal before he can figure Edmond out, and he’s not entirely sure he has that time. Who knows what could happen in the next day, never mind the next few minutes. Fox is no stranger to people’s twisted ways and shifting moods. Any second now, Edmond’s nervousness could change into anger, or something worse.  

 

Fox starts to slow down his eating, and groans a little.

 

The downside of eating so quickly and so much is the sudden bellyache. The upside is the faint look of disgust on Edmond’s face as he shoves the last bite of egg and bread into his mouth. He may be half-starved and a little unrefined, but there’s no need to be rude. 

 

“Thankfew,” He mutters, spewing crumbs down his shirt. 

 

“You’re... welcome.” His companion seems to hesitate over the words, as if unsure they would be well received. Part of Fox does want to bristle that the tone—the upper-town drawl of a man who’s never had to go hungry—but he can’t find it in himself to throw such kindness in the man’s face. He saved his life, fed him, gave him a comfortable place to sleep. 

 

No, it’s more than that. He saved his life and gave him _words_ again. Gave him his name back. 

 

Stiles. He was Stiles, once. But now that name is synonymous with betrayal, with years of silence and emptiness. How could he ever take it back when it was used to curse him? How can he return to that person after all this time? 

 

Swallowing his last bite of food, he decides he won’t, not yet. He will remain as Fox, until he can take back his name from those hateful lips and choke them with it. 

 


	4.  Speak False and Forever Hold Your Peace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of Derek's secrets spill out like so much blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably needs editing.

 

 

 

It’s late afternoon by the time the note arrives, attached to a small bottle of Lydia’s usual cold remedy. Derek takes it from the young man’s hands with a thankful nod, and carefully keeps the door half closed to hide his companion. Fox had insisted he remain a secret, after all. 

 

“Thank you,” Derek says to the runner, offering him a few copper pieces as a tip. The curly-haired man smiles brightly at him, and accepts the money with a quick bob of his head before he’s rushing back down the stairs again. 

 

Derek detaches the note from the bottle as he closes the door, and turns back to his companion. Fox had returned to the bed not long after finishing his meal, and had curled up in a ball to doze while Derek jotted some notes down. He hasn’t moved since, and the soft snores from before stopped as soon as there had been a knock on the door. 

 

“This should help you considerably,” he says, holding the vile up for Fox to see from his nest of blankets. “Do you still wish for me to test it?” 

 

Fox lists his head and, scowling at him, reaches a hand out. “Just give it here, I will smell anything unsavory.” 

 

Derek snorts, and drops the bottle into his hand before turning back to the desk and opening his note. He smiles softly to himself when he hears the stopper pop open and the raspy snuffles of someone trying to smell with a stuffed nose. He ignores the satisfied muttering coming from the bed and focuses on the note. 

 

_I warned you that it would be something like this. Dare I ask why the cold remedy? Come home, Edmond. We’ll speak more then._

_-Lydia_

 

Derek sighs, and folds the paper closed. He knows he should have expected the ‘I told you so’, but he doesn’t appreciate it all the same. How could she have possibly known that his betrayer was nothing but a child at the time? How could she even understand how he feels, how much _more_ loss he’s suffered because of this discovery? He gets no revenge, no answers, no resolution. He gets nothing more than a sick boy and a thousand more questions. 

 

Questions he dares not ask his skittish visitor. Not until he’s better, at the very least. 

 

There’s a gagging sound behind him. “That tastes _terrible_!” 

 

“I didn’t promise it would taste good,” Derek replies, turning around to find Fox making a disgusted grimace in his direction. The bottle appears to be empty, at least, so that is good. The boy should be feeling better within the day, if he follows the same form as most who take Lydia’s remedies. 

 

“I do taste the willow,” fox remarks, plucking the bottle up and admiring it in the light. “This is a nice vial. Where did it come from again?” 

 

“My...cousin,” Derek replies, something close to their usual lie. “We share a home together with her mother in the upper town.” 

 

“Ah, so you _are_ lord, then?” 

 

“Of sorts.” 

 

“That’s perfectly vague,” Fox snarks, popping the stopper back in the bottle and tossing it in the air. “You’re very mysterious. Do you save a lot of urchins from death, or am I just lucky?” 

 

Derek narrows his eyes at him, considering his answer. He could be honest, he could tell him he was who he was searching for. But then he would give away his biggest secret, and give Fox leverage over him. It’s hard to explain what he was doing on the roof, though, never mind why he climbed out the window in the first place. Well, actually...

 

“I could smell you,” he blurts out, feeling his ears burn with a blush. That wasn’t quite how he wanted to say it, and judging by Fox’s unhappy expression, it wasn’t received well. “I’m a—it’s... i’m a werewolf. I could smell pain and sickness when I opened the window, so I went to investigate.” 

 

Fox seems to freeze on the bed, letting the empty vial drop into the blankets as he stares at Derek. There’s a tense moment where Derek is sure he’s going to scream or start throwing things at him, but the moment passes and Fox starts to smile. 

 

“A real werewolf, huh?” he muses, fingers plucking at the blankets. “That’s a rarity these days. You don’t find many willing to linger with Gerard as king.” 

 

“Some remain,” Derek admits, frowning. “But usually hidden.” 

 

“And yet you told me.” 

 

“I have no other way to explain my presence on your rooftop.” 

 

“You could have lied—come up with some story.” 

 

Derek raises a brow. 

 

“No, alright, I suppose not,” Fox relents, his smile growing sheepish. He smells much happier, though, which makes Derek’s wolf oddly content. It’s all the nerves and suspicion that have been bothering his nose since their return to the room, he imagines. 

 

“So you smelled me from your window and just decided to follow it?” 

 

“I don’t wish to insult you, but you do have a potent scent at the moment,” Derek explains, smirking a little at Fox’s insulted huff. 

 

“I smell of roses.” 

 

“Roses since passed, maybe.” 

 

“ _Fresh_ roses!” he yelps, flailing both hands at Derek dramatically. His yelling brings forth another round of coughing and sniffling that ends with a grimace. “No, alright, if even I can smell it...” 

 

Derek chuckles until he realizes what he’s doing and quickly clears his throat. He is _not_ supposed to be having fun with this-this betrayer. Even if he was just a child when it all happened, Derek doesn’t pal around with strangers. He doesn’t even make friends. That path leads to discovery, torture, and death. He’s already risked enough letting his second biggest secret come to light. Fox could easily go to Gerard’s men and give him away, leading to his death and the potential ruin of Lydia and her mother. 

 

Then again...

 

Derek eyes the young man as he attempts a subtle sniff at his armpits and gags. 

 

He’s clearly not running at full... power at the moment, not with his illness and weakened strength. Derek has seen some slim and poorly-fed street dwellers in his time, but Fox is in a class of his own. He seems so frail, as though he might simply fade from sight between one blink and the next. 

 

Derek really wants to... well. Take care of him. 

 

It’s a feel that is very much at odds with his feelings of betrayal and anger. 

 

“Are you hungry still?” he asks, approaching the bed to get a better look at his new companion. It’s been a few hours since he last ate, with a small nap in between. Perhaps he’s ready for something more.  

 

Fox, however, looks troubled. “As much as I appreciate the offer, I don’t think I can actually eat more just yet. That’s more of a meal than I’ve had in years. My stomach kind of... hurts.” 

 

Derek blinks in surprise, and silently curses himself for his stupidity. “Of course. You have my apologies.” 

 

“You don’t have to _apologize_ ,” Fox quickly replies. “I enjoyed it. I _really_ enjoyed it. It was just... a lot. I’ll need to digest for a while. Possible a whole day.” 

 

Derek finds himself cracking a smile again, and nods in agreement. “Alright, I’ll leave your stomach to it’s digesting. Can I get you anything else, meanwhile?” 

 

Fox considers this for a moment, his eyes narrowing at Derek as he considers it. “Well, _Edmond—“_ Derek does not like how he says that name. “—I could use a drink of water. That elixir of yours leaves a rather foul aftertaste.”  

 

Derek hears the faintest hint of a lie in his words—a small skip in his heartbeat—but can’t for the life of him fathom which part it is or why. He knows for a fact that the remedies taste horrible, and water would be good for someone no doubt dehydrated as he must be. Why lie? Or perhaps his heart simply stuttered due to his illness? That is a possibly, Derek has heard it in many older guests at the Martin home. 

 

“I can fetch you some,” he suggests warily, taking a step towards the door. 

 

He sees Fox tense up, sees the fear line his eyes and tighten his lips into a thin line. Whatever it was that kept him from leaving last time still seems to bother him. Still, he nods in agreement and Derek has no option left but to go, or stay and make things awkward. He decides to risk it, assuming that he will be able to hear any activity from down stairs if he listens well enough. 

 

“I’ll return quickly,” he says, ducking through the door and letting it close softly behind him. In the room, he hears Fox let out a long, wet series of coughs that sounds painful and gross. Derek frowns and waits until he is done before picking his way carefully down the crooked stairs. 

 

It seems silly, but perhaps that was it. Perhaps Fox simply wanted to cough freely and was too ashamed to do so in front of Derek. He hasn’t heard anything else over the creaks of the stairs, but a few sniffles and snorts. 

 

Smiling to himself, Derek makes his way to the bar to get a cup of water and perhaps some honey-ail for himself. 

 

He really is too paranoid for his own good, sometimes. What could the young man do? Derek has nothing of worth to steal in the room, and Fox is too sickly to run off. There’s little for him to do while Derek is gone. On the other hand, there’s always the risk of him vanishing into the dusk. The window is easily accessible, and unless Fox keeps the golden round on him at all times in the future, Derek isn’t sure he’ll be able to find him again. Surely the would-be assassin will return to his spell work as soon as he can? 

 

Frowning, Derek steps up to the bar and waits for someone to serve him. The room is more crowded than his previous visit, with workers filling the tables for a late lunch or early dinner. Some of them are watching Derek, visionary curious about his fine clothing in a place like the King Tut Tavern. Derek pays them little mind, however, and focuses on Erica as she moves behind the bar. 

 

“Excuse me?” He asks, hoping to gain her attention. 

 

She puts a finger up as she places several glasses on a tray, and turns to acknowledge him once she’s done. 

 

“Can I help you?” 

 

Derek nods, and offers her a faint smile. “I’d like some water, please.” 

 

He can hear the shuffling of upstairs. 

 

Shit. 

 

“Just water today?” She asks, smiling warmly at him. Derek wishes he had more time to be friendly, but he can hear the window squeak open and the thud of the desk bumping against the wall. 

 

“Just water,” he says curtly, and tries to ignore the stunned hurt that flickers across her face. 

 

The thud of the mug hitting the bar isn’t surprising, nore is the slosh of water that drenched his hand. He offers her a tight lipped smile that she turns away from, and hurries back to the treacherous stairs. 

 

Fox was clearly making his escape, and Derek is probably too late. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as he hears the creaks of Edmond descending down the staircase, Fox leaps from the bed and darts across the room to the window. Moving _hurts_. A lot. But, move he must. 

 

The window is a bit difficult to access with the desk moved back in front of it, but Fox manages to scramble on top of the thing and wiggle his way out the window with less trouble than he expects. Clearly there is something to that remedy, if he’s able to move as well as this in so short a time. 

 

The climb to the rooftop is less than easy, and involves some stops and starts while he gets his breath back and steadies his shaking legs. It takes more time than he’s comfortable with, but he makes it to the roof without hearing any movement in the room below. 

 

“Ugh... I really do stink,” he mutters to himself as he picks his way across the rooftop to his nest. The blankets he collected over the years lay limp and cold where they left them after Edmond revived him the previous day. Where they once felt inviting, they now feel repulsive to him. He actually  _died_ here. He was a corpse for who knows how long. He should not have returned. 

 

But, return he did. For one simple purpose. 

 

“Where the hell has it gone?” He hisses as he digs through the piles of rough fabric. He flips the gray one over and starts pulling the dull red one up from the rooftop. Bits of dirt and a cloud of soot fill the air, making him cough again. 

 

Great. 

 

He’s got two handfuls of blanket when he hears someone call his name from below. 

 

“Fox?” 

 

 

Cursing, Fox scrambles his way through the blankets. He startles when he feels the cold touch of metal against his hand, and lets out a relieved sigh. There are many things he’s willing to abandon. Many times he’s started afresh and left all he’s collected behind. But he will not give up his knife. It was the one thing he was gifted for his skill, the one thing he’s rightfully earned, and the last object tied to his past life. He will not give it up so easily. 

 

“Fox!?” he hears, louder and more desperate. 

 

“I’m coming!” he calls back, rushing to the edge of the roof and nearly toppling off. Below, he sees a dark-haired head pop out the window and turn up to face him. 

 

“Are you abandoning the warm bed?” Edmond asks, his voice a fine line between concerned and teasing. 

 

“Wild horses will have to drag me away,” Fox replies, heaving himself over the edge with one hand, the other firmly wrapped around his dagger. “Mind you, an underfed pony could probably do the trick.” 

 

He hears a chuckle in response, and tries to ignore how relieved it sounds. 

 

A hand finds his back as he nears the window, and with Edmond’s help he’s safely back in the room again before he can blink. 

 

“Wow. Um... you’re strong,” he mutters, face flushing as he takes in Edmond’s arms in a quick glance. 

 

Edmond does nothing but look confused about the matter, and stands there awkwardly staring at him until Fox realizes he hasn’t explained why he ran off. 

 

“Oh—right. Yes. I had to get something,” he explains, tucking his his knife into the sleeve of his tunic. “I didn’t want to leave it up there just in case I couldn’t get back.” 

 

Edmond frowns at him. “Why wouldn’t you be able to return?” 

 

“Um... I don’t know. Some... reasons?” 

 

He continues to frown quietly.

 

“I just wanted to be sure I had it!” Fox hisses, scuttling away from Edmond before he asks what it is he needed to fetch. He knows he’s holding his arm in an awkward, obvious manner, but he doesn’t have much choice. Usually he has a strap for his dagger, but the leather had worn thin and cracked during the previous winter. For now, he will conceal it under a pillow and keep it close to him. He picks the one closest to where he previously napped, and crawls back into the bed to make himself comfortable. 

 

Edmond hasn’t moved since they re-entered the room, his expression doing that oddly flat sort of thing again. It’s almost painful to watch, and the man has clearly spent a lifetime perfecting such a distinguished and blatant disguise of emotion. Has he no family or friends to call him out on it? Does no one care that he shows a mask to the world? That he hides so much with so little care that everyone with a hint of brain will know there’s secrets to be had? 

 

And, yes, Fox knows there’s more to him than just his wolf. His fake name, his unease about speaking about his so-called sister, his high-born behaviors mixed with brashness. But Fox doesn’t exactly have ground to stand on when he’s offering up nothing but lies. Still, he refuses to stay close to a man lying so obviously and with so little regard for those who damn well _know_ it. 

 

“So, Edmond...” he begins, watching the man draw away from his thoughts. “What are we to do?” 

 

“I assumed you’d wish to rest until you felt better,” he replies, a quick mockery of a smile flirting across his face. It’s hardly worth the effort, and convinces Fox that something has changed.

 

“I have rested,” he replies, feigning boredom. “Resting is boring.”

 

“Being Ill is a boring affair,” Edmond replies, lips tilting up at the edges in a hint of a real smile. Fox hates that it eases his nerves so easily. 

 

“Make it less boring,” he demands, smirking. 

 

“I’m not here for your amusement,” he huffs. 

 

Fox leans forward, watching him intently, and ask, “Why _are_ you here, then?” 

 

There’s a flicker of something across Edmond’s face, but Fox doesn’t wait for a reply before he pushes on.

 

“And while we’re at it: what is your real name?” 

 

Edmond sniffs, “i’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

 

Fox raises an eyebrow and waits. 

 

“I’m here on business. My name is my own.” 

 

“What business?” Fox asks, ignoring the name, for now.

 

“I was meeting someone downstairs for... business.” 

 

“That sounds false and you know it,” Fox replies sharply, his fingers inching closer the the blade stuck under the pillow. “If you were sent here for me, just say so.” 

 

Instead of anger, which he expected, Fox is surprised to see Edmond’s brow furrow in confusion. It makes him hesitate in drawing his dagger, but only just. 

 

“I was not ‘sent’ for you,” Edmond replies, his voice oddly soft. “I only came for you when I sensed you outside.”

 

“See, I don’t think that’s true,” Fox hisses, pulling out his blade and holding it in front of him. “How did you know to come for me here? Who told you how to find me?” 

 

At this, Edmond glances quickly away, shifting his weight in obvious discomfort before his eyes settle on the knife again.

 

_Ah_ , Fox thinks, _this is what he looks like when he’s caught out_. 

 

Disappointing. 

 

“I—I was looking for you,” Edmond explains, putting a hand up as if to ward Fox off. “I had heard tales of someone who would do... certain work for a price.” 

 

Stiles narrows his eyes and rolls up into a crouch, bringing his dagger closer to Edmon’s chest. “Try again. The truth, this time.” 

 

Edmond’s eyes flash red, but still he won’t meet his eye. He remains focused on the knife, posture stiff and unyielding. 

 

“Edmond—of whoever you are—I just want to know the truth. You have treated me with nothing but kindness. You have saved my _life_. But I cannot let this go on without knowing why and what for. I know you are a wolf, but that is not even half of it. A fool could tell you this.” 

 

The man growls, showing a flash of sharpened teeth before he jerks his head to the side and glares at the desk instead. He’s obviously stubborn, which Stiles finds admirable but annoying at the same time. He doesn’t have _time_ for stubborn, he needs to know what direction this is heading in. Is Edmond his savior? The sun that set his world aflame and leads Fox back to Stiles? He is the one who saved his life, but at what cost? What is it he’s going to take from him as payment? 

 

He desires to try again, more gently, “Edmond—“

 

“ _Derek_.” 

 

“W-What?” Fox sputters, fingers tightening on the knife. He must have heard wrong. 

 

“My name is Derek,” he says, finally turning to meet his eye. “Derek _Hale_. Six years ago you were sent to assassinate my mother and failed. Five years ago she called for you by your bond, and you let my family burn.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Derek does knock Stiles out in this chapter. He doesn't know who he is, at the time, and simply reacts to someone following him. So, there is that.


End file.
